


Cassandra of a Nowhere Place

by Flammenkobold



Series: Cassandra of Vox Machina [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, that should tell you all about the tags used, the Briarwoods - Freeform, the Clasp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 15:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8673118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flammenkobold/pseuds/Flammenkobold
Summary: That day the arrows found her brother's back.Cassandra is the one to escape the Briarwoods. Somehow her life manages to get worse, as she finds herself an orphan in the streets of Westruun, forced to work for the Clasp.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalgalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/gifts).



> This fic was done for the Critical Role Reverse Bang. The art this was written for and inspired by was created by the lovely [Kalgalen](kalgalen.tumblr.com) and can be found [here](https://flammenkobold.tumblr.com/image/153739936879). Even though the scene they drew didn't make it into this story, it inspired me so much. So thanks to my amazing artist!

If Cassandra Johanna von Mussel Klossowski de Rolo (of Vox Machina) were so inclined, she could look back at her life and put it into three sections. Her life as a de Rolo, her life as a shadow, and her life with Vox Machina. Of course it wasn't as neatly as this. There were things that crept back up, things that overlapped, things she couldn't forget or couldn't remember. But if she were to simplify it, that would be it.

 

She didn't remember much of her life as a de Rolo, of her childhood. She wondered if that was part of life, forgetting where you came from, or if she wanted to forget.

There are bits and pieces she recalled.

That she was the youngest of the bunch and that she was cherished.

That she wasn't her mother's favorite, despite sharing her name and having her temper. That her mother used to wear her armor only during the Grey Hunt, once a year, and otherwise dressed like a proper lady. That she was never more beautiful to Cassandra than on that day.

When she asked her mother why she didn't wear it more often, her mother brushed a leaf out of her tangled hair. "Because a proper lady doesn't let others see that she wasn't always a proper lady."

Cassandra crossed her arms and chewed on her lower lip. "Then I don't want to be a proper lady."

Her mother looked at her fondly, but with a hint of sadness. "Oh Cassandra, but you will be, you have to be. You wouldn't want to sully your family name."

 

The family name, something ominous, something big and heavy, but something to be proud of, to square your shoulders to and hold your head high. Cassandra never quite understood what the fuss was about, but knew that it was _important_. She knew that it meant that she had to act proper when they had guests or when strangers and townsfolk came to court. That it meant that one day she would marry someone from a noble family to strengthen her father's and Julius' political ties as Lords of Whitestone. It came with hours of schooling, political, philosophical and social, that she had to endure. That she envied her brothers for not having to bother with it, because it wasn't required of them to one day marry in the family name.

Julius would often laugh at her for it. "At least you won't have to run Whitestone."

"I'd rather run Whitestone than marry some slimy Lord or Duke," she huffed at him. "And I would be better at it than you!"

He'd chase her around the castle then, until Father or Mother chided them both for it. Julius would wink at her then, one conspirator to the other. Later he would take her aside to somewhere quiet and teach her how to hold a short-sword.

Cassandra might not have been her mother's favorite, but she had always been Julius'.

 

Vesper had been a proper lady. That Cassandra remembered. Perfect at everything, especially needlework. She created intricate works, each more elaborate than the next, vibrant flowers and animals. Once Vesper recreated the branches of the Sun Tree with yarn. Cassandra had been fascinated by it. She never could do needlework. She didn't have the temper for it, her tutor would say.

When the Briarwood's men where finished with her, Vesper hadn't looked like a proper lady at all.

 

Percival had been a bit of a ghost to her, always studying in the library or tinkering in his workshop. Mother had insisted that it be built for him, so he could work on his ideas and inventions.

Clever Percival with his clever mind. Mother had nothing but praise for him and Professor Anders shared her opinion. Cassandra hadn't much of an opinion on that, but she thought that he was a bit boring. Sometimes though, he would built new things for the doll house or small toys for the younger siblings. Small puppets and mechanical animals that would move on their own when you pulled a string. It were the only times she thought he might be interesting after all.

He had kind eyes, most often, except when an idea gripped him or he was building something new. Then they became intense, focused. Less the eyes of a dreamer.

Still she never understood why he would spent so much time scooped up in the library or his workshop, when there was so much else to discover inside and outside the castle.

 

Whitney she remembered the least of. What memories remained, were always overshadowed by the the last time Cassandra had seen Whitney's face. Pale and terrified; and that, above all else, would make her want to weep. She knew that Whitney used to have a wonderful laugh, rare but infectious once it broke out, but for the life of her Cassandra couldn't remember how it sounded.

 

Oliver and Ludwig came as a packaged deal. Ludwig was always ill in some way or the other, always coughing and pale. Oliver was the opposite, always healthy, his cheeks always reddened. They were inseparable and Cassandra had a hard time standing her ground against them. Sometimes the three of them were in cahoots, as Julius would laughingly say. Most often it was Cassandra against the two of them.

She learned how to hide better than them, when they played hide-and-seek. How to hold herself so still they wouldn't notice her, even when they passed right by her. She learned where all the best possible hiding spots were in and outside the castle.

When they had snowball fights in winter she would learn how to attack from behind trees and carriages and barrels and any other cover she could find. She learned how to use the smallest distraction from her other siblings or a servant to lop a ball at them. Sometimes she would sneak up on one of them and dump a handful of snow on their heads.

In summer, when they played tag, she learned how to dodge out of the way before one of them could tap her on the shoulder or the arm. She taught herself how to notice them when they tried to sneak up on her, a stir of wind, the smell of their soap, the tiniest sound.

Later, she thought, these childish games had saved her life, more so than her mother's teachings had.

 

Her father was distant. Not neglectful, but always busy. He didn't mind when she hid in his study, even when he had visitors, as long as she stayed quiet. He imposed the family's honor and virtue on all of them, told them the story of the Sun Tree in the town center and taught them how to hold their heads high.

In the end, for all his nobility, for all his strength in character, he was the first to die.

 

It was shortly before Winter's Crest when the Briarwoods came to Whitestone. It was getting dark early and the thick, gray clouds seemed to help making the night come even faster. It was barely four in the afternoon, but it could as well have been the middle of the night, when they arrived at the castle.

They were nobility from Wildemount, traveling through. Professor Anders had vouched for them. “Lady Briarwood is an old friend,” he told them, “we studied together.” He looked at Percy then. “And one of their traveling companions is Doctor Anna Ripley, a very intelligent woman with an interest in inventions. Dear Percival could very well benefit from exchanging ideas with her.”

They were nice, Cassandra thought. At first. Especially Lady Briarwood. “Call me Delilah, dear,” she said when Cassandra was introduced to her. Cassandra had crossed her arms and looked Lady Briarwood up and down, before giving her a nod.

“I just might.”

Her mother's embarrassed “Cassandra!” was very well worth it.

Lady Briarwood just chuckled. “What a darling girl.”

“I apologize,” her mother said, and Cassandra knew that she would be in trouble later. Lady Briarwood turned towards Johanna de Rolo and smiled benevolently.

“Oh don't mind, I certainly don't. Your daughter is quite spirited. A good quality in a young lady. It makes for an interesting character.”

Her mother just raised an eyebrow. “Well, that is one way to put it.”

Later, Lady Briarwood leaned conspiratorially over to Cassandra. “You know, I was rather like you, when I was younger.” Cassandra looked at her skeptically.

“Really?”

“Really,” Lady Briarwood said and told her stories from her youth. None of them Cassandra would remember in the years to come, but she would remember Delilah's wistful smile as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind Cassandra's ear. “I always hoped I would have a daughter as spirited one day, but I was not that lucky.”

The feast was a quiet, relatively small affair, still elaborate and festive. They didn't often get visitors from outside Whitestone. Their land was too removed from most main roads and important traveling routes and their father more concerned about the local population, than making connections with other nobles, aside from the necessary marriages.

They had invited some other guests, but Cassandra barely took notice of them. She sat at Delilah's side, wedged between their guest and Ludwig, who coughed quietly now and then.

Lord Briarwood was sitting next to her father, talking to him and Julius quietly, but with a voice that carried, making it possible to follow their conversation, if one so wished.

Professor Anders and Doctor Ripley had both taken a seat next to Percival, who had started talking haltingly about his “silly, little inventions” as he would put it. But he had grown bolder at expressing himself and his ideas under Doctor Ripley's interest.

The feast came to a slow end, it was getting late.

The Briarwoods shared a look and a nod and then Lady Briarwood stood up.

“If you'll excuse me,” she said to Cassandra's mother, on her other side. “It's getting rather late.”

“Of course.” Her mother made an attempt to get up, but Delilah stopped her with a hand on the arm.

“Please stay seated, I wouldn't want to cause any inconvenience.”

Cassandra's mother sat down again, an oddly blank look on her face.

On the other side of the table Professor Anders got up as well, placing both hands on Percival's shoulders. “Well, I think, I should excuse myself as well.”

And then everything happened so fast.

One moment Cassandra's father was alive and well, the next blood poured from his mouth, his eyes wide. The end of Lord Briarwoods's sword sticking out of his chest impaling him.

Julius jumped up, his hand on his sword, when the captain of the Briarwood's guards, Stonefell, Cassandra thought, had a blade to Oliver's throat. “Don't,” he snarled at Julius, “or the little one dies.”

Vesper was screaming and screaming and screaming, until another guard punched her in the head. “Be quiet!”

Cassandra wondered where their guards where, as she sat there frozen.

Whitney was staring directly at Cassandra, eyes wide and utterly terrified.

Next to Cassandra Ludwig was shaking, his breath coming out wheezing.

Oliver had peed himself, his eyes screwed shut, whimpering helplessly, as the blade pricked his skin.

Percival and their mother were just sitting their, eyes vacant, staring at nothing.

Then Lady Briarwood's hand landed heavily on her shoulder. "Let's get you out of here, darling girl, shall we?"

Cassandra wanted to scream, to do anything, but Lady Briarwood's fingers dug into her shoulder, steering her out of the room. Away from her father's limp body and her siblings' terrified whimpers.

Behind her and Lady Briarwood the fight broke loose, the Whitestone guards finally jumping to action. Whatever Lady Briarwood's hold on her mother had been, broke too and Cassandra heard her screams echo through the halls of the castle.

 

She was kept away from everything, locked into her room. Occasionally she would hear screams and fighting, but it was always over too soon, to lift her hopes and always too long, to not leave her in fear.

Lady Briarwood would come and visit her most often, bringing her food and tea.

She was kind to Cassandra.

That was the worst. The kindness. No matter how much Cassandra pleaded and screamed and threatened her.

She once tried to stab her with a letter opener, but Delilah would just snatch her wrist and squeeze it long enough for Cassandra to drop it. She sighed, as if disappointed with her, like her own mother had so often done. Then she made her sit down in front of her vanity and brushed Cassandra's hair, braiding it neatly, before leaving Cassandra sitting there like a discarded doll.

Cassandra had never felt more helpless in her life.

She would ask for her siblings, for anything, but Lady Briarwood would just look at her with sympathy and tuck that one unruly strand of hair back behind Cassandra's ear.

“My lovely girl, trust me, soon they won't matter.”

Sometimes there was a disgusting smell wafting through the door, when Delilah brought her food. Cassandra found out later that this was how human flesh smelled, when it burned.

One night she managed to unlock her door with the help of her hairpins. Nights, she thought, were safer, people were asleep then and it was dark enough to hide in the nooks and crannies of the castle.

It was her first excursion, but certainly not her last. She carefully sneaked into the rooms of her siblings, hoping to find someone else, locked away like her. All the rooms were open, empty and untouched. She didn't dare go further then, too afraid someone would see her.

It was shortly after dawn, just a bit before Lady Briarwood would bring her her breakfast, when Cassandra remembered to lock her door again, as to not arouse suspicion why it was unlocked.

The third night she dared to go further and regretted it. She made it to the dining room. It was empty except for a woman lying on the table. Her clothes were torn and her feet bare and dirty. She didn't move and neither did Cassandra when she first saw her.

After a few minutes had passed without the woman moving, Cassandra crept forward. When she rounded the table, Cassandra saw the woman's face. She rushed over immediately.

“Vesper!” She whispered, shaking her sister's shoulder, trying to wake her up. But Vesper's arm was cold to the touch and the stench coming from her was repulsing. Her eyes were milky and her mouth hung open in a silent scream. Cassandra backed away, hands pressed to her mouth to keep herself from screaming. She ran back to her room, not caring if anyone saw her and flung herself on the bed. The didn't make a sound, but the tears rolling over her cheeks felt hot against her skin. She did remember to lock the door in the morning though.

Lady Briarwood came the next morning, brought her hot tea and freshly made pancakes. Cassandra could barely touch them, without throwing up. Lady Briarwood made her sit down and braided her her, talking at Cassandra, but Cassandra didn't respond at all for once.

When she finally left, Delilah stopped at the door. “Odd, that is the first time you haven't asked after your family,” she noted idly, watching Cassandra like a hawk. Cassandra glared at her, hoping she wouldn't betray anything.

“Like you would tell me!”

There was the barest hint of a smile on Lady Briarwood's lips as she left.

Cassandra didn't steal out of her room that night.

Two nights after she made it to her father's study. The door was half open and voices carried from it down the hall. Cassandra's heart was beating so fast and loud that she was sure the people inside must hear her, as clearly as she did them. She made out Professor Anders' voice, and the voice of Lord Briarwood, though not as familiar to her as the professor's, was unmistakable too.

“We need only one for the ritual,” he said calmly.

“Then keep Percival. I'm sure until it's time we can make good use of that mind of his. Ripley has almost broken him,” Anders said dismissively.

There was a brief pause. “My wife is rather fond of the girl.”

“Yes, I've noticed. But what good would she be? She's just as useless as the other children were.”

“And what good is a broken mind to us. She's at least young enough to molded, to be steered in the right direction. For all your talk of how clever the boy is, Anders, you have done little to corrupt him to our cause beforehand .”

“It's not his mind that's the problem. The gentle heart just needs to be exposed to the right kind of violence. One Ripley surely can administer.”

“Of course,” Lord Biarwood said sarcastically.

Cassandra knew, even before Anders could say another word, that this was the end of their conversation. She slipped into the next room and pressed herself against the wall. The door of her father's office creaked fully open just about the same second. Lord Briarwood's steps fell heavy on the carpet outside. He briefly stopped in front of the door she was hidden behind and Cassandra held her breath and herself very still. For a moment he stood there and then walked off. She sank down to the floor and remained there long after his footsteps had been gone.

At least Percival was alive.

Knowing he was alive and getting to him were different things.

She didn't know where he was kept, but there were two options that came to her mind. His workshop was one option, it only had one entrance, was fairly secluded from the rest of the rooms and it would be easy to keep a person in there. The second one was the dungeons.

Cassandra hadn't been down to the dungeons often. Her mother not deeming it appropriate for a young lady.

Once she had went down there on a dare from Oliver, who thought she was too chicken to go. She'd done it, of course, it was Oliver who had chickened out in the end. Another time she had found her way there, was when she had found the secret passage from the forest into the cells. She'd never understood why one of her ancestors thought it was necessary to built a hidden passage way from the dungeons to the outside.

She started to understand now.

But getting there was the harder part.

So the workshop it was.

That night she almost got caught by Anna Ripley, who had made Percy's workshop her own.

Cassandra had nearly given into the rage of seeing that woman seated at her brother's work bench. Ripley had no right, no right to take what was her brother's. Cassandra never thought she could hate someone that much, but in that moment it drowned out even her fear. She'd been halfway through the door, before she came to her senses.

She had been out of the room just in time before Ripley saw her, but it was a near miss. Ripley must have noticed something, as she carefully walked out into the hallway, a sword halfway drawn. By sheer luck Ripley glanced the other way first and Cassandra pressed herself into one of the alcoves to hide.

There hadn't been any sign of Percival.

The dungeons seemed to be more likely. Even if he wasn't there, the idea had gotten hold of her. If she could make it down there, she could get out. Perhaps get into town and find help. Anything was better than being trapped in the castle, than having Lady Briarwood visit her every day, with tea and false kindness.

Sometimes during the days Cassandra had caught herself looking forward to Delilah's visits. To have some kind of human interaction and distraction from the dullness and terror filling her hours.

One way or the other she needed to get away.

That night she slipped out of her room at around three in the morning, hoping that most would be asleep. Getting to the dungeon was harder than she had imagined and took far longer than she would've liked.

The deeper she moved into the castle, the more often she would almost run into one of the guards making their rounds. Figuring out how long it took them to walk their round, took most of the time getting down below the castle. There were also tired looking people passing by occasionally who carried bits of stone and earth. Cassandra didn't stop to think where they came from, or why the Briarwoods had ordered people to dig into the foundation of the castle.

Close to the dungeons the people finally thinned out. But getting in was a completely different matter. She was lucky in the end, as one of the guards left the dungeons, as she still tried to figure out how to get in, without drawing any attention. Better yet, he smelled like ale and his gait was uneven as he staggered down the hallway. She slipped in before the door fell shut, he had forgotten to close.

Her heart was beating fast, a constant war drum under her ribs. It almost stopped when she noticed the man in the corner. Another guard propped up on a chair. But his eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open, loud snores coming out of it.

There was a heavy bundle of keys dangling from his side. Cassandra's hand became sweaty and her throat was dry, when she brought herself to creep over to him, intent on taking the keys. When her hand touched the keys, he gave a loud, stuttering snore and Cassandra held herself very still, before his head fell back and his breath evened out again. She let out her own and slipped the keys from his belt.

Slowly, as silently as she could, she slipped past the guard, deeper into the dungeons. Trying hard to see something in the cells in the almost near darkness. In one of them was a bundle on the ground. When she pressed herself close to the bars, she saw the tiniest rhythmic movement from it, like someone breathing.

“Percy?” she dared to whisper, hoping that no one else would hear her. “Percival,” she hissed again and finally the person moved.

“Cass?” his voice sounded blurry, but it was Percy. She grasped the bars of his cell tighter, relief flooding through her.

“Yes, Gods, Percy.” She felt shaky all of a sudden and crouched down to look at him better.

“Cass,” he repeated again and crawled towards her. His eyes darted around wildly, like a scared animal. He reached out with a thin hand, far thinner than she remembered him having, and grasped her shoulder. As if he wanted to make sure she was real. The look in his eyes sharpened and he focused on her, with the same intensity that was usually reserved for his inventions. “You need to leave here.”

She shook her head, “Not without you. I'm getting you out,” she whispered back and showed him the keys. They quietly jangled in her still unsteady hands. Nervously she looked over her shoulder to see if the guard had noticed anything yet, but she couldn't see him from where she was.

She tried several times to find the right key, her attempts at opening the lock in Percival's cell not helped by her still shaking hands.

“Are the-, are the others here too?” she asked him quietly, eyes focused on the lock, not daring to look at him.

He was quiet for a bit and then softly said, “I'm sorry.” As if it was his fault, as if any of this was his fault. The only thing he had done was confirm what she had deep down already known. What she had known ever since she had found Vesper's body and overheard Lord Briarwood and Professor Anders.

“There's a secret passage way outside, we can leave through there,” she told him, acting like she hadn't heard him and refusing to look at him.

She finally found the right key, but when she tried to pull open the door, the hinges creaked loudly.

There was a sound from the dungeon's entrance, heavy feet hitting the ground and a sleepy, “What?”

Percival looked at her with wide eyes and she mirrored his expression. They reached for each others hand and she pulled him deeper into the dungeon towards the secret passage. Behind them she could hear the guard curse loudly, then an even louder bang as he flung open the door to the dungeon, rushing in the other direction.

He hadn't seen them and thought Percival had escaped through the castle.

She pressed herself into the passage, Percival right on her heels. The small corridor was pitch black, but she didn't dare stop or let go of Percy's hand. The way was straight ahead and fairly clear of obstacles. A few times she or Percival tripped, but the made it to the end without falling. When they made it through the hidden entrance, pale morning light greeted them. The cold air stole her breath for a moment, but they didn't have time to stop.

The alarms at the castle had been raised and she could hear already dogs barking in the distance.

During the Grey Hunt, two years ago, her mother's favorite dog had lost the scent of the stag they'd been hunting. Her mother had led them over the torrential mountain river east of the castle, at the safest spot to cross it, further up the mountain. She had told Cassandra that the only way her dog would lose a scent was when it was washed away by water or by magic. And she doubted that the stag could perform magic tricks.

So Cassandra led them towards the river.

The dogs' barking became louder by the second, their hunters closing in on them.

She tripped on a root, she didn't see in time and this time she fell. If she hadn't, things might have gone differently.

Percival raced past her, only to be reeled back by their joined hands, his body turning towards her as he was spun around “Cass, come on!”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Percival's eyes widened, mouth moving without a sound. Cassandra stared in horror as he keeled over, three arrows sticking from his back. She stumbled back a few steps. Another arrow barely passing by her ear, shaking her out of her stupor.

She kept running then, scared beyond anything, until she fell into the river, the icy torrents pulling her under and away.

She didn't know how she survived at all. Just that later she would wake up in the hut of a fisherman, his wife standing at a small oven, stirring soup.

 

Her stay with the fisherman and his wife was a short one. Cassandra had no skills to offer them. She wasn't physically strong enough to help on the fishing boat and she couldn't cook at all. Gardening had always eluded her and her crocheting and knitting was abysmal at best. Vesper was the one who had been good at this. Vesper was dead.

Waking up screaming in the night wasn't endearing her to them either. Neither did strands of her hair turning white from one day to the next, as if she'd been cursed.

They asked her repeatedly who she was and where she came from, but when she told them, they just laughed and shook their heads. “So much imagination. But girl, these lies won't get you anywhere in this world.”

She overheard them one night, talking about how they couldn't afford to feed her. Saving a young girl was one thing, but letting her live with them. Shouldn't she at least be able to help out somehow?

Cassandra left in the early morning hours of that day. She didn't know where to go, or whom to trust. She had never left Whitestone before. The city too far away from most destinations to make it a day trip and her father finding it more important to be there for his subjects, than traveling to foreign cities.

She briefly thought about finding the family of the boy she was to be betrothed to one day. His family lived on the border to the Whitestone land. But what then? What if they were in league with the Briarwoods as well? And what was there to be done even if they weren't. She didn't know. Still it seemed like her only option.

On her way to Turst Fields she learned over and over again, that a girl in ratty clothes was nothing and the few people she gave her full name to would laugh at her. One gave her a copper, for telling such an entertaining story.

In Turst Fields she wouldn't even get past the guards at the town gate.

“Get lost,” one of them said and threw a rock in her direction. “And don't come back or we might not be so nice.”

“Pretending to be a de Rolo,” she heard one of the other guards laugh behind her. “Man, have you heard, that plague they have up there killed half the town, whole royal family is dead already.”

Cassandra dug her fingernails into her hand, from rage or dizzying sorrow she couldn't tell. Numbness filled her body. She slept that night in a tree, freezing and hungry, plagued by nightmares.

 

The next morning came, gray and dull. Cassandra set out on the road, one step after the next. A de Rolo didn't give up. How she ever made it to Westruun, she couldn't remember, but somehow she did.

Westruun was a bustling town, growing slowly into a city. Bigger than Whitestone, definitely, and enough trade going on to have a stream of strangers passing through. It was easy to get lost in it, but it also made it easier to steal unnoticed.

Cassandra had a sharp mind, keen eyes and quick fingers and even quicker feet. It kept her fed and alive and she could mostly outrun trouble.

Thrice she got caught. The first time was by a woman who slapped her so hard, her ears rang and she got away with a warning and the purse taken back from her. The second time by one of the Westruun guards, an old man with kind eyes, who looked at her sadly. "Nothing to be done, huh, kid?" She spent a night in prison and it kept her warm and got her food and one blanket stashed under her ill fitting clothes.

The third time, she tried to steal from the wrong person.

He was quicker than her and before she knew it she was pressed against a wall in a side street, a dagger at her throat. "Let's see what little rat we have here," he whispered and eyed her up and down with a sneer on his face. She kicked him as hard as she could and he dropped her. She didn't get far though, before her face was pressed into the mud and the dagger back at her throat.

"You're a spirited thing, aren't you? And quick, too." He hesitated then and she thought she was going to die then and there. The last of the de Rolos left in a ditch. Just another street urchin who wandered the wrong way.

"Perhaps we can make something of you," he said at last, even though the dagger at her throat remained. "What do you say, girl? Serve me and live, or die here?"

She swallowed her tears and made a choice.

 

Not soon after, Cassandra learned that the man she had tried to steal from, was Spireling Rook of the Clasp in Westruun.

She was trained then, groomed to be a good asset to the Clasp. She ran little errants for Rook and she would steal coin and other small trinkets from whoever she was pointed at. They cut her hair short, so she looked more like a boy than a adolescent girl.

“Your hair is too noticeable,” she was told, right before the barber shaved it off. Cassandra didn't cry, didn't say anything.

Most days she spent in the streets of Westruun, either begging, stealing or following people marked by the Clasp, reporting back by nightfall on their whereabouts. She wasn't another lost child anymore, but she was another replaceable asset for Clasp. There were enough children who would've been proud to step into her shoes and work for Spireling Rook. It meant a roof over your head when you slept and one warm meal a day.

If you were lucky and good enough, you could even become a member of the Clasp and that would take care of most worries.

That was if you ignored that the safety was only granted to you as long as you remained unquestioningly loyal, didn't fuck up and made sure to stay unnoticeable enough to not make any real enemies who wanted to slit your throat in the middle of the night.

It came at the price of everything Cassandra had been taught. Be honorable and kind and fair. Be firm in your decisions and loyal to your word. Be ruthless only when faced with enemies and show mercy to those under your protection.

The lock picking and the puppets with bell jackets were only one part of the training. Once she showed that she was already proficient with a short-sword, Rook put a dagger in her other hand. She knew what she would one day have to use it for.

There was another part of her training that was waiting for her. She was still just a street rat, but one day she would be too old to pass as a child. Then they would take her from the street for other things, she knew. They would allow her to grow her hair again, the noticeable mix of white and brown probably to be found desirable. At least hat was what one of the prettier women in the Clasp told her laughingly.

“Men will go crazy over you, once you grow up,” Aspin said, her breath smelling heavily of wine and smoke. “Trust me, it makes your assignments so much easier.” She threw back her head and drowned her wine, winking at Cassandra. “Can make them so much more fun, too.” Cassandra suppressed a shudder running down her spine. She doubted it.

Her evenings she spent helping out in the small tavern under which the Clasp's headquarters in Westruun was. She cleaned up after patrons and fetched beer and wine from the cellar if needed and informed Rook when someone wanted to speak to the Clasp.

It was late one night and Cassandra was wiping the already empty tables at the bar. That she would later remember, not the day or what else happened on it. But this. The moment her life would change again.

Telna had returned from a joint mission with the Clasp in Emon, boasting aboout her adventure and throwing a welcomed round of drinks. Cassandra always assumed that was why people tolerated the obnoxious thief in the first place.

Her and Cassandra didn't quite get along. Then again Telna didn't quite get along with anyone unless drunk. But she had especially taken to taking a dislike to Cassandra, ever since Rook had brought her in from the streets and had ordered Telna to show her a few tricks.

“Look at that, if it isn't Rook's new favorite,” she hissed under her breath, when she spotted Cassandra, before raising her voice, “Hey, little rat, your cousin Obby says hello," Telna said and a few people dissolved into laughter. Cassandra balled her hands into fists, at being dragged into the center of attention.

"I don't have a cousin," she shot back.

"Oh oh, little thing got bite," one of the men in the back choked out and another round of laughter followed. Cassandra wanted to sink into herself, slink back into the shadows, not be noticed by any of them. But she held her ground, squared her shoulders. There was a small voice in the back of her head, _a de Rolo stands tall_. She was surprised it was still there.

"No?" Telna rasped and leaned close to her face. The terrible smell of rotten teeth and bad tobacco washed over Cassandra "Obby the rat? Small squirelly fellow. Says he got a vast family, too." The others laughed again.

"Perhaps you should dig into your family tree then," Cassandra said and took pleasure in the snarl on Telna's face.

One of the remaining men whistled. "Good one," another cheers. Cassandra barely ducked out of the way when Telna's hand snapped forward to smack her.

"Enough," a cold voice from the entrance of the small bar ordered. Every laugh in the bar quieted as Spireling Rook entered. He pointed at Cassandra. “You, girl, with me,” he snapped.

She tossed her cleaning rag on the table and hurried to follow him. Behind her she heard Telna mutter, “Yeah, scurry along.”

Rook led her down to the tunnels, towards where his office was. Halfway down Rook started talking.

“We have a new recruit. You are to assist him in finishing his first mission.” He grabbed her shoulder and squeezed a bit too hard to be comfortable. It was a message, clear and loud. Do as you're told. “In whatever capacity needed.”

“Understood.”

“Good,” he said and let go of her shoulder. “Mostly I want you to keep an eye on him. I don't trust him.”

She bit her tongue. Like you could trust anyone here.

“You will report to me how he holds himself up.” He stopped her right in front of his door. “If you do this right, the next mission will be for your own initiation.”

She didn't know if the stab in her heart was from dread or pride. Not that it mattered. Either way she would be dead or wearing the mark of the Clasp, branding her as forever theirs.

Spireling Rook was already opening the door.

There was a young man leaning against one of the chairs around Rook's desk, the one closest to the door. He had long, dark hair, fine features and pointy ears. Half-Elf, she thought. He looked handsome, but most of all he looked nervous.

Rook pushed her forward, “Vax'ildan, this girl is going to assist you,” He introduced her. “Little rat, this is our new recruit.”

 

In whatever capacity needed, turned out to play bait. When Rook announced it, the recruit, Vax'ildan, opened his mouth as if to argue, but one hard look from the Spireling was enough to shut him up. Cassandra didn't even bother, she had learned that it was no good arguing with Rook.

“You don't have to do this, I can finish this on my own,” Vax'ildan told her once they left the headquarters. His eyes rested on her and she had to look away. They were too open, too honest. He worried about her and that was laughable. He didn't know her, he was here to join the Clasp and she had long ago learned that strangers didn't worry about you unless you had something to offer them.

“I will do it,” she answered him hotly. “Rook will find out if I don't. Then we both are in trouble.”

“Okay,” he said softly and they stayed quiet for a while. " So what's your name then?" he finally asked.

She shrugged, "Just what they call me," she told him and he turned towards her, eyebrows drawn into a frown.

“But you do have a real one?” She wondered what it was to him. No one had cared before and her name was worthless now anyway.

“Does it matter? Just focus on your mission, that should be more important than my name.”

He looked at her for a few unnerving seconds longer and then averted his gaze. “Very well.”

Something in her felt disappointed that he hadn't pushed more.

An hour later, she regretted not having taken his offer to skip out on the mission.. Going along without asking more questions, without knowing fully what she was getting herself into, had been a mistake.

Hands wound tightly around her throat and no matter how hard she trashed, she couldn't get away.

“Stop struggling,” the man they were meant to kidnap rasped. “You'll make such a nice addition to my collection.” A chill ran through Cassandra and as she kicked out this time she hit his groin. It made him loose his hands around her throat for long enough to get out of his grip. She managed to get up, barely, and staggered away, when his hands closed around her again.

“Oh no, you stay.”

Dark spots began to swim before her eyes and she wondered where the hell the recruit was. Just then there was a loud thud behind her and the grip around her neck disappeared entirely. She coughed and when she turned around the man was laying on the floor, if dead or unconscious she couldn't quite tell. Vax'ildan was standing behind him, his dagger tightly gripped in his fists and he looked down at the man in utter disgust and cold rage. “Fucking asshole,” he cursed and for good measure kicked the body on the ground.

Then his eyes focused on her. “Are you all right?”

She ran a hand over her throat, still feeling where his fingers had dug into her flesh. Tomorrow she would have a visible bruise there.

“I'll live.” Cassandra looked at the body and the ground and felt the urge to kick it too.

“Sadly so will he,” Vax'ildan said, shaking a small vial, that looked suspiciously like some of the sleeping drug she'd seen in the Clasp's poison cabinet. She watched the same sickly yellow poison drip from his dagger, mixing with their targets blood. After a moment he added, “I really want to kill him.”

Cassandra crossed her arms. “Don't hold yourself back on my account.”

Slowly he shook his head. “No,” he said and took a trembling breath. “No,” he repeated more firmly. “I need him as exchange.”

“Exchange for what?” she asked, a bit curious now.

“And here I thought they told you,” he said as if to tease her. She glared at him angrily.

“Rook just told me the essentials.” It was practically a lie, as Rook hadn't told her much at all and she hadn't bothered to ask, which was on her. Looking back, she really should have.

“Sure,” he said. Then his brows furrowed, as he looked down back at the body. “So how do we get this fuckshit out of here?”

They did find a cart in the end and decided to put him on it, to transport him easier. Cassandra watched as Vax'ildan tried to heave him on the cart, cursing the entire time, choosing not to help him.

“I think it would be easier to put him on there in pieces,” she commented after the third time Vax'ildan failed to get the body on the cart.

“Trust me, I'd love nothing more.”

“But?”

“You want to help me out here?” he asked instead of giving her an answer.

Cassandra jumped on a nearby table and let her feet dangle, “No.”

Vax'ildan rolled his eyes, “You're a brat,” he told her.

“And you're an idiot,” she shot back because she could. Odd, how at ease she felt.

He went quiet on her again and tried to move the unconscious man again. After his fifth attempt he sat down on the floor, running his hands over his sweat soaked brow. “My sister,” he said glumly. “He's exchange for her life. I need to get his ass back to the Clasp by morning.”

Cassandra's stomach knotted itself into tiny little little balls that threatened to make her sick.

“That's...unfortunate,” she said flatly.

He gave a little choked of laugh. “That's a nice way of putting it.”

After that she quietly helped him heave their target on the cart and cover the body. When they were finished, it just looked like they were transporting ordinary stuff.

They made their way back to the tavern in the early morning hours. Few people were already up, most on their way to the market place, a lot of them drawing heavy carts behind them as well. This way Cassandra and Vax'ildan didn't draw any attention to themselves or their unusual cartload.

They delivered the body and Vax'ildan was led of to a small room. One of the Clasp's sorcerers followed behind him and Rook. Cassandra sat down next to the door, limbs heavy and an unwelcome surge of sadness gripping her heart. She knew that he would be branded soon.

When he finally came out of the room, the Vax'ildan looked spooked. His eyes found hers and he stared blankly at her for a moment. "Walk with me?" he requested quietly. She nodded and took to the shadows right behind him. They walked deeper into the catacombs beneath the city. When he seemed to be sure that no one had followed them he pushed her into a dark nook, where they would be mostly out of sight in case someone did decide to come looking for them.

"Listen to me," Vax'ildan pleaded quietly, "listen,-" and despite herself Cassandra did. Perhaps it was because something in his eyes reminded her of Percival. They were trained on her intently as he looked at her. "- you need to leave here."

She raised an eyebrow at him. “And where would I go?”

He looked away for a second, before focusing on her again. “My sister and I are camping outside of Westruun, we're going to be leaving in a while. You could come with us,” he offered.

“Why?” She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you offering? What do you get out from this?” No one did anything without wanting something in return. Cassandra had learned that much by now.

He blinked at her. “Nothing. I just,” he hesitated for a moment. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me-” Damn right she hadn't. “-but, listen. These fuckers aren't up to some very sketchy stuff. And just, please don't stay around.”

“You're one of these fuckers now, you idiot” she retorted.

He looked down, almost as if ashamed. She hadn't seen anyone join the Clasp and not look proud of it, in all the time she had stayed with them. He looked up at her again and there was that intensity again, as if he could make you believe his words if he just stared hard enough.

“I know. But you don't have to be.”

She fled then.

It wasn't like she could leave anyway. She doubted Rook would allow it. Then Vax'ildan and his sister would be in trouble too, and what for.

He did stay around the Clasp for a few more weeks, taking on several jobs for Rook. Cassandra made sure to avoid him as best she could. It didn't stop her though from occasionally watching him in the tavern or while she was out in the streets.

Then one day he was gone.

Something heavy settled in her bones, close to dread. Vax'ildan had left, like he said he would, she told herself. A short stay, yes, but one that would bind his obligations forever to the Clasp. But for a moment she feared that worse had befallen him. Rook wasn't known for his forgiveness concerning deserters.

These thoughts shouldn't bother her, but try as she might, it felt like she had lost the only friend she had in some time. She was half tempted to sneak out of the city's borders and go looking for him. In the end she didn't. Whatever his destiny was, she wouldn't share it. Her future lay with the Clasp, she thought numbly, resigning herself to this bleak outlook.

 

Spireling Rook called her to his office a few days after Vax'ildan had left.

Even before she entered Rook's office, Cassandra felt uneasy. Something was about to happen and no matter what, it wouldn't be good.

Rook was bent over a handful of papers, his eyes squinting down at the small writing. “Sit down,” he told her and Cassandra took a seat on one of the chairs, perching on the edge, her back straight. He ignored her for a bit, still focused on the papers in front of him. A wave of nausea hit her, all of this reminding her of her father.

“You did good,” he finally addressed her. “Or at least that is what our newest addition said.” Of course Rook couldn't just give a compliment without undermining it. He tapped his stylus on his desk, regarding her almost curiously.

“I think it's time to start the next step in your training.” She had expected that Rook had used Vax'ildan's assignment as much to test her as him, and felt like she'd been proven right. Not that she had done much in the end, except be a convenient distraction, that he probably hadn't needed at all. But Rook didn't seem to have been told that version of the story.

Rook pulled a sheet of paper from below the ones he had been reading and handed it to her. It was the color of old vellum and felt like it had been handed around several times, it was folded in the middle and on top it read _Madame Glade_.

Cassandra's blood ran cold. “No,” she breathed and, more vehemently, added. “I don't think I'm quite ready for this kind of training. Not ever.” She could steal for the Clasp, shadow someone, one day perhaps maim and kill people under Rook's command, but not this.

Rook eyed her sharply and stood up, rounding his desk. She knew she had made a mistake. His long, cold fingers grasped her chin painfully. “You better be ready, little rat.” He leaned close to her, cold anger showing on his face. “You will go there and you will learn whatever skills she can teach you, or so help me, I will make you work for her.” He let go of her chin then and Cassandra pressed her lips together. Whether it was to keep herself from spitting into his face or from keeping the contents of her stomach spilling out, she couldn't tell.

“You won't be required to perform what you'll have learned, or to entertain people at Madame Glade's. But one day seduction and misdirection might save your life and finish a mission for the Clasp,” he added more calmly, as if he was throwing her a morself of compassion and reassurance.

Rook returned to chair and his notes.“Now go,” he ordered her. “And give my regards to Madame Glade and her girls.”

It was a clear dismissal and Cassandra slowly stood up and left his office.

She couldn't stay. She knew that. But she couldn't leave easily either.

She went upstairs, face kept carefully blank and her steps measured, even when she wanted nothing more than to run as fast as she could. The tavern was still relatively empty and while no one paid much attention to her, she knew someone must watch her. She quietly showed the paper to the barkeeper.

“I won't be helping out today,” she whispered.

The barkeeper just looked at the paper unimpressed. “Seems like you won't be helping out ever again,” he said tiredly. “Go get your coat, it's raining outside,” he added, the only sign of compassion.

Cassandra swallowed and slipped passed the man into the kitchen. Behind it was a small corridor leading into a back alley. On the left hand side, before the back door, was a small broom closet that had been given to her as a sleeping place.

It wasn't much, but it had been warm and dry. Cassandra didn't have many clothes or much of anything at all. She took her ill-fitting cloak and as she slung it over her shoulders, a small note drifted to the floor.

It lay there for a second, quivering in the draft that came through the door and Cassandra stared at it for a second. The wind carried it a few inches before she had the sense to pick it up.

_Will be around a few more days, if you want to join._

The note wasn't signed, but it had to be from Vax'ildan. It just had to be. Her hands trembled as a flicker of hope ignited in her chest. Perhaps there still was a chance to get away.

She needed to destroy the note, just in case it was found on her, but that would require her to go back to one of the kitchen fires. She had no desire to go back at all and in the end resigned herself to eating the note. It was small enough to swallow whole.

After the possible evidence was destroyed, she took a small knife out from under her bedding. She had pocketed it from a drunken customer and had kept it as protection, however little it offered. Then she took the few coins she possessed and folded Rook's paper once more, and tucking it into the belt she wore, letting it peak out enough so that anyone could see it.

When she went outside the back door she didn't even try to be stealthy about it. Rook would have someone following her, she was sure. Even if he trusted his intimidation tactics to work on her, someone would notice if she didn't go to Madame Glade's whorehouse. Besides, going there might give her an entire night worth of time.

She later couldn't remember how she got there, or what story she fabricated once she was in there, to leave so quickly again. She used the rain and the clouds covering the moon to disappear into the shadows behind the whorehouse, constantly checking if someone was following her.

Cassandra made it out of the city and into the field. A gale of wind hit her, making her shiver. Her flimsy cloak provided barely any protection against the cold and the rain. The meager coins in her purse couldn't help her here out in the fields. She didn't even know where Vax'ildan and his sister were or if they even were still in the area. Perhaps they had already left and she was too late. Maybe his offer had just been a test set up to prove her loyalty, or lack thereof, to the Clasp. Worse, perhaps he would sell her out or do much worse to her.

All off a sudden her knees felt weak and she had to sit down on the muddy ground. She felt stupid and incredibly young and almost as helpless as she had during the days spent confined to her room. Delilah bringing her food and combing her hair, while outside people fought and died.

Out here she didn't even have the luxury of a warm meal and the pretense of kindness to keep her in false safety.

It made it better in a way.

It would have been easy to return, to pick up her training. Learn how to seduce and flirt, as well as steal and, one day, kill. But that was nothing but false safety as well. It was better to face the harsh reality of things, at least then she could fight or die trying.

Cassandra pushed herself up, gritted her teeth and set out again.

Later, she would call it faith that she found them. Then she just called it luck.

But she did find them, their fire almost burned out under a makeshift cover that kept them from the worst of the rain.

When she found the campsite only a woman with long, dark hair was there, her features unmistakably the same as Vax'ildan's, just more feminine. She had a bear with her, who growled lowly as Cassandra approached, even though she was as quiet as a mouse. Cassandra froze in her steps. The woman didn't respond, but there was something off about it, as if she deliberately pretended to be unaware of someone approaching. Too late it occurred to Cassandra that this was what she did.

She felt the dagger at her back just then.

“Don't make a sound.”

Cassandra nodded.

“What do you want?”

“I- It's me, you idiot,” she hissed and felt the pressure from her back disappear. She slowly turned around and looked up at Vax'ildan's surprised face.

“You came.”

She bit her lip and nodded, suddenly feeling like she had to blink water out of her eyes.

“What happened?” he asked, as if he really was concerned about her.

“I think I'm in trouble,” she said and then smiled painfully. “I know I'm in trouble and I didn't know where else to go.”

“Brother?” she heard the woman call from behind her. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything's fine, sis,” he called back and steered Cassandra in the direction of the camp site. “She doesn't know,” he whispered into her ear. Louder, he spoke again to his sister, “I found a new traveling companion.”

When Cassandra stepped into the dim light of the fire, the woman eyed her skeptically.

“Where did she come from?”

“Just a pickpocket from Westruun,” he told her, as he stepped in front of Cassandra. “I ran into her a few times.”

“Please don't tell me we're adopting strays now,” the woman said almost exasperated.

“Hey, you have your trinket,” he argued back and the bear next to the woman lifted his head and grunted, as if being addressed.

Vax'ildan turned to Cassandra again, as he swiftly stepped backwards towards the bear to pet it on the head. “That's Trinket, by the way. No worries, he's really nice,” Vax'ildan said, his voice dipping down into the same cutesy voice Julius had used for his favorite dog.

The woman sighed. “He is,” she admitted, “unless you aren't nice to us.” As threats went, it was made far more impressive by the actual bear behind her.

“This is Vex'ahlia, Vex, my sister,” he introduced the woman, and then pointed at Cassandra. “And this is-, sorry never got your name,” he said sheepishly.

“A new traveling companion whose name you don't even know?” Vex rounded up on him not a second later. “Wait, is she the reason we had to camp out a few days longer?”

They started to squabble then and there and Cassandra was left to look at them flabbergasted. It was ridiculous, all of it. She was on the run from the Clasp and her own past, in the middle of a field somewhere near Westruun, with two strangers she didn't know. And they behaved like ordinary siblings.

A laugh escaped from her mouth. The first one in a long time.

The twins turned to her as one and Cassandra pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. “So what's your name then?” Vex asked her finally.

She hesitated, but it wasn't like she has got much to lose now. Besides, they seemed nice enough.

"Cassandra," the name felt rusty on her tongue. “Johanna,” she added, because she could. Then thought, why not the rest too. What was the worst they could do, that others hadn't done first – laugh at it, at her, or take it away entirely. “von Mussel Klossowski de Rolo.”

She watched as the twins exchanged glances and shrugged.

“That's a mouthful,” Vex said, the same time Vax asked, “Can we call you Cass?”

She nodded slowly.

“Yes, Cass is fine.”

 

This was when her life started again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Although it was meant as a mini-bang, this story reached big-bang proportions. I didn't make it in time admittedly, but I made it! (And perhaps, if I ever make it, there will be at least one more part to follow).


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